


Circle the Drain

by salamandererg



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Ambiguous Slash, Drunken Confessions, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 04:00:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7343932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salamandererg/pseuds/salamandererg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes when England gets drunk, he ends up admitting his love for America.  America has learned to take it in stride because England never remembers in the morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Circle the Drain

America has been on the receiving end of England’s drunken rants far too many times to still be offended by them.

Complaining about America’s people?  Whatever, America will punch him in the morning.

Mumbling about some weird piece of history with France?  Not America’s problem.

Blubbering about a particular awful soccer—sorry, _football_ —match?  America really, really, _really_ doesn’t care.

However, when England gets quiet and doesn’t turn into a loud, incoherently muttering drunk, that’s when America has to be on guard, because he never knows what England’s going to say—or if he means it.

The first time it happens is during World War I.  Just a quiet drink in a quiet bar.

America is drinking slowly, not overjoyed to be here with England because it’s still weird.  There are too many emotions, because to America, it seems like the Revolution just happened.  It’s all too easy to forget about his time as a colony when England’s out of sight; he can just focus on himself, on his people and their accomplishments.  When England’s around though, America feels like a kid again, either ready to bend over backwards for a pat on the head or sitting in a corner waiting to be reprimanded.

England has already finished four glasses by the time America orders his second.  They haven’t said a word to each other, though England tried a few times before giving up.  He looks tired and, though it makes America grimace to think it, _beaten_.  He wants to slap England and tell him that this war isn’t over yet, remind him that America’s here to save the day.  (Though, that particular sentiment wasn’t met with a very thankful reaction the first time he said it.)

America tilts his glass in a circle, seeing how close he can get the beer to the edge without spilling it.  That’s when England finally says something.

“I love you so much.”

America rights his glass with a slow, stunned motion and lifts his eyes to England’s, convinced that he had heard wrong.  This is England, he’s all repressed and _English_ about stuff, and he doesn’t do spontaneous outbursts of emotion— or even regular shows of emotion.

“What?”

England’s doesn’t look at him; he just stares down at the table, his face pale and sweaty.  He takes a huge breath and doesn’t say anything else.

America leaves England with the bill and his untouched beer.

\--

The next morning America flat out asks England if he remembers last night, which causes England’s thoughts to spiral out of control.  He grabs his forehead and squints up his eyes and America wants to point out how constipated he looks.

“Oh, bugger, did we sleep together?”

America just laughs, high, thin, and almost _relieved_ , “No, you didn’t sleep with me.  Though, I did hear some French…”

America walks away with a small smile as England swears up a storm.

\--

America is wary to drink with England alone again and refuses him several times until he can get someone else to go with them.

That other someone is France.

Maybe not the best choice as he and England are already arguing before they even reach the bar.  America joins in at first, usually ganging up on England using the same insults as usual (bad food, bad teeth, small country, being totally inferior—he pointedly avoids mentioning the Revolution, that’s reserved only for his birthday).  After they’ve all had a few though, America is content to sit back and let France and England snipe at each other.

He sighs, thinking that last time was just a fluke and now things are back to normal.

\--

The second time it happens, America feels like he lulled himself into a false sense of security.

It was several years after WWII, when they became a little closer, a little more inclined to visiting each other.  And America wasn’t worried when he broke out the booze and sat on the floor, offering a glass to England.  Which England accepted, even while complaining that the glass they were using was not the proper container for bourbon.

America shrugs it off, when has he ever been concerned with using the proper whatever for anything?  A glass is a glass is a glass.  Which he says and then England gets hyped up on a half-hour rant about why exactly there are certain containers for certain booze and you’re old enough to understand this and didn’t I raise you correctly, why can’t you use ‘football’, and why do you have to be so bloody difficult all the time, just switch to the damn metric system, why don’t you ever listen to me you fool can’t you see that I love you?

It’s like a sneak attack.  America chokes on his _whatever_ he’s drinking, because by then he’s lost track, and stares at England, who’s gone suspiciously quiet and pale (and his jaw is clenched tight).

America thinks that maybe England really meant to say it that time, choosing the coward’s route by slipping it in with a meaningless rant.  America is not a coward.

“What’d you just say?”

“What?  Huh?”  England looks up from the spot that he was staring at, wide-eyed with sweaty, pale skin, which reminds America of dead fish or bloated dead bodies.  It’s disgusting, so America grits his teeth and slams his glass on the coffee table.

“I want to know what you just said.”

England’s pale skin has taken on a greenish tinge and he still isn’t looking at America.

America wasn’t letting up though, he had lived with this faint idea in the back of his head for going on fifty years, “Did you say that you—”

England lifts up his head sharply and America cuts himself off at the look in England’s eyes, both defiant and pitiful at the same time.  England looks at him this way when he’s sober sometimes, usually after America has made some ill-timed, off-color joke about him, or around the time when America starts sending out invitations to his Independence Day barbecue.

Then they start to get watery, and America is suddenly out of his element because he never knows what to do when England starts _crying_.  It’s always a juxtaposition of comforting (because what kind of hero just leaves a person crying?) and getting the hell out of there (because America does not do crying—especially when it’s England).

Then England’s hand flies to his mouth, stuck tightly to it like the little Dutch boy’s finger in the dam—and America finds out exactly how apt his metaphor is when England runs to the bathroom.

America suddenly feels drained and empty, the beginnings of a headache forming just above his eyebrows.

He thinks about checking to make sure England isn’t drowning in his own vomit, but decides that for tonight he doesn’t care, and goes to sleep.

\--

The next morning, America treats his hangover with a plateful of bacon and reads a very polite, albeit shakily written, note from England explaining why he had to leave so early and an apology for vomiting on the bathroom floor.

America crumples up the note and makes a mental one for himself about kicking England in the shins when he sees him next.

\--

America takes a perverse, almost sadistic pleasure in inviting England to his birthday parties and seeing the grief it puts the other man through.  He knows it’s not very heroic of him, but for one day out of the year, America remembers what England put him through and relishes in twisting the proverbial knife in England’s back.  The one England claims is there.

It’s not like America doesn’t have his own bad memories from those years.  Some of his people had still been loyal to England after all and coupled with his own naïve hero-worship and familial love for the other nation, it’s not like it was an easy battle.  He’d had to stare down the barrel of a gun pointed toward the man he’d thought of as a father, toward a full-fledged _empire_ , fully prepared to shoot and not even blink.  Did England think that had been painless for him?

He probably did.  America knows he plays it like it was easy.

It's only an hour into his party when Japan politely informs America that England has smuggled a large portion of beer cases and hidden them behind America’s house like some kind of alcoholic squirrel preparing for winter.

America laughs and tells Japan not to worry about it and to go eat more barbecue.  He watches Japan shuffle off toward the buffet line and sighs, heading toward his house.

Eventually all his birthday celebrations end up with him and a drunken England.

America pokes his head into his backyard and sees England sprawled in a chair on his deck, staring mindlessly at America’s garden.  Again, there is the perverse pleasure at seeing England so utterly distraught over him, but it is always accompanied by guilt for making his father figure, friend, and ally break down so completely.  A primly wrapped, though slightly beat up, present is sitting on America’s lawn table, hidden among several empty beer bottles.

“Hey, Iggy,” America says with a smile, “You know, I had no idea that you liked my beer so much.”

“‘S watered down piss,” England mumbles out and sets yet another empty bottle down to join its brothers.

“Ah, it’s just the taste of watered down piss you enjoy, then.  I’ll remember that for next time.”

England doesn’t answer and America takes that as a cue for him to sit down.  The wooden chair gets unbearably hot in the summer sun and the paint is faded from time and weather, but it’s his favorite and he can’t bear to part with it.  No matter how many splinters the damn thing gives him.

“So, you’re drunk,” America starts out the conversation because England is in no shape to do so. “I guess this means you aren’t enjoying my birthday party.  Also, you’ve stolen most of the beer, how do you expect all of us to get along nicely if no one’s a little buzzed?”

England, to his credit, did say something in response to that, but his accent was so thick America couldn’t make it out.

America doesn’t bother asking England to repeat, he doesn’t really care, but he does reach over and half-fight with England to get his hands around a bottle of beer for himself.

“Y’come ‘ere to gloat?” England fumbles the words out of his mouth and glares at America.  “Punky little upstart beatin’ a, a god-damned kingdom?”  England takes a sloppy swig from his new bottle of beer, makes a disgusted face, but keeps drinking. “And the French?  The, the (unintelligible, too heavily accented, most likely crass muttering) French?!”

America’s mouth twitches up in a smile, this is the drunken England he’s used to, this is the one that he knows how to deal with.  America lets out a relieved sigh (in the form of a chuckle) and listens to the rest of England’s rant.

“And, this isn’t your bloody birthday, you know damn well that you weren’t born on this day, you just say it is to, to be a, a bloody wanker!”

England coughs, sputters, really, and goes silent after that.  America has long since stopped drinking from his bottle and figures he’s been gone long enough from his festivities.  Not that the other nations really care if America is present or not, with enough food and alcohol to go around, the party will keep going without him.  America isn’t bothered by this, as long as they all still bring presents, China brings fireworks, and the barbecue doesn’t run out.  As long as England turns up, even if it is to get drunk behind America’s house.

America stands up, stretches, and looks down at England.

“No, it isn’t the day I was born on.  This is the day that I and my people fought and committed treason for; a group of colonies against a kingdom, a militia against an army, a,” America clears his throat loudly, not wanting his voice to waver, “A son against someone he loves like a father.”

America continues to stare down at England, who doesn’t move nor give any hint at all that he’s heard any of that.  Which just tops the cake for America.

“So, no,” America says harshly, “It isn’t my birthday, it’s my independence day.  And when you feel the need to vomit, don’t do it on the furniture, it’s older than I am.”

America walks back to his celebration, taking a few seconds to place a smile on his face and start thinking of jokes to say about England, which side to take in the barbecue debate between Germany and Spain, how best to side-step France when the nation (inevitably) got too handsy.

America wonders how England would be acting had the outcome been reversed.  Would England be the one throwing a party and America drinking and sulking behind buildings?  Maybe he’d be the one mumbling confessions into his drink.

\--

England still says it, the words slip out occasionally, either to fill the silence or tacked on to a rant.  America stopped asking him if he remembered sometime in the 80’s, deciding that it really wasn’t worth getting his hopes up and then hearing England say ‘No, what are you talking about?’ in that bewildered voice.

America just takes it all in stride; he understands, that just like himself, England’s always saying things that he doesn’t mean.

\--

End

**Author's Note:**

> As always, con-crit is appreciated. Thank you for reading.


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